Part 14 (1/2)
”Thomas.”
Unsure if he was imagining the voice, he stepped from the path. His boots crushed dead leaves as he s.h.i.+fted between bushes and tree trunks, straining to see in the acc.u.mulating shadows.
”Ann?”
”Here I am, Thomas.”
”Where?”
A woman stepped from behind a tree.
He stared. Then he gasped and stumbled backward, certain that he was indeed experiencing a nightmare.
The woman was wizened, almost bald. Her face was gaunt, her eyes sunken. Sores festered on her cheeks.
”Here, Thomas. Take me. Your Ann.”
”No.”
”You didn't return when you promised. You abandoned me.”
”No!”
”But now we're together.” Dressed in rags, the festering woman held out her arms. ”Love me, Thomas. We'll always be together now.”
”You can't be Ann!”
”This is what you want.” The woman raised her ragged coat and skirt, exposing her wrinkled nakedness. ”Love me, Thomas.”
As a scream formed in his throat, another plaintive voice startled him.
From another tree, another wizened, festering woman emerged, raising her coat and dress, exposing herself. ”Here I am, Thomas. Your sister Jane. Do you remember me? Do you remember playing with me in the nursery? Do you want me? You can have me.”
Now he did scream as another woman stepped from a tree, raising her coat and dress.
”Here, Thomas. I'm your sister Elizabeth. Remember how you sneaked into the room where I lay dead? You stared at my body all afternoon. Then you kissed me. You can kiss me again now, Thomas. You can have me.”
”I'm Catharine, Thomas.” Yet another woman emerged, exposing herself. ”Remember me? The little girl who lived near you at Dove Cottage? Wordsworth's daughter? Remember how you lay on my grave for days, sobbing, thinking of Jane and Elizabeth and Ann. The terrible loss. But not any longer. We're here, Thomas. You can have us all.”
Weeping uncontrollably, De Quincey watched even more women step from the trees, their features destroyed by pustules.
”I'm Ann!”
”No, I'm Ann!”
”I'm Jane!”
”Elizabeth!”
”Catharine!”
”Love us, Thomas!”
He shrieked, the wail coming from the depth of his soul, from the pit of his despair. His tears burned his eyes. He sank to his knees, screaming, ”No! No! No!”
WE NEED TO SEPARATE!” Ryan said. ”You take that path! I'll-”
”Wait. I hear something,” Becker said.
”Voices. Women's voices,” Emily said. ”They're calling names.”
”That way!” Ryan pointed to the left and started to run.
Becker hung back, needing to stay with Emily and protect her. But she surprised him by rus.h.i.+ng ahead, her bloomer dress and her frantic need to reach her father giving her a speed that Becker had difficulty matching.
They rounded a corner.
”No!” De Quincey's voice shrieked from the trees.
”Ann! Jane!” the women's voices shouted.
”Here!” Ryan charged into the undergrowth.
”Elizabeth! Catharine!” the women chanted.
”Emily, stay back!” Becker warned.
But she was too determined. Branches snapped as they forced their way through the trees.
De Quincey kept wailing.
”Ann! Jane! Elizabeth! Catharine!” the women chanted.
Becker pulled his truncheon from beneath his coat, charging past bushes.
Emily hurried to follow.
Ahead, Ryan abruptly stopped at the sight of De Quincey on his knees, sobbing. Becker joined him, gaping at ragged women-streetwalkers, old and infected-who shouted the mystifying names.
”Emily, you shouldn't see this!”
”But what's happening?”
Becker had no idea. He braced himself, scanning the trees for a threat. All he saw was the women.
De Quincey's shoulders heaved, his convulsions rising from the deepest part of his soul.
”Father!” Emily ran to him. ”Are you hurt?”
De Quincey sobbed too forcefully to answer.